Thirty minutes later, Heidi stands before me, hands on hips, and asks, “Really?” when I appear before her with briefcase in hand and I reply, “Yes, really,” as I say goodbye to Zoe and head for the door. I drag Heidi by the hand and into the hallway before I go. The scent of Heidi’s breakfast fills the space. A neighbor passes by, presumably headed for the newsstand on the corner. “I want you to call me,” I say as the elevator chimes in the distance and our neighbor friend descends to the first floor. “Every hour on the hour. If you’re so much as a minute late, I’m calling the police.” “You’re being unreasonable, Chris,” she says to me. “Every hour, Heidi,” I repeat. “It’s that simple,” I say, asking rhetorically, “How much can you really know about another person?” And then I kiss her cheek and leave. On the train, I eavesdrop on twentysomethings’ conversations about the previous night’s drunken adventures, their lingering headaches, whether or not they puked when they got home.
